The Bathroom Break (Bill Denbrough IT fanfic)
Like always, it started with a stutter.
“Cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh,” William Denbrough, or more accurately; Bill, stuttered violently. “Cahhhan I-I go to the buh-bah-bathroom?”
“Sure, go,” his teacher said, her fingers finding her temple in annoyance. She was well aware that Bill couldn’t control that wicked speech impediment, but that didn’t make it any less maddening. Within a breath, Bill had jumped out from his seat and onto his feet. He launched up so aggressively that he slammed his upper legs and hip bones into the edge of his desk. The desk seemed to flinch in return. The resulting squawk the desk's feet made against the floor turned the surrounding giggles and chuckles in the room into all around laughter. Bill looked around the laughing classroom in agonized embarrassment. His classmates were laughing so sporadically and loudly, that one would assume some poor child just let out the most atrocious and fantastical fart known to man in a classroom of thirteen year olds. Bill only wished it was that simple, then he could dispel any mean spirited questions with his own simple answers like, “I couldn’t hold it in anymore” or “my mom made beans, it’s not my fault”, but Bill wasn’t so lucky. Now on his feet with his eyes to the floor, face blotchy and red like a rainier cherry, he sped walked -just shy of a jog- towards the classroom door. As soon as he lifted his hand for the handle, Moose Sadler; the reason for Bill's humiliation, spoke out, “buh-buh-buh-bye b-b-b-b-b-Billy,” in a mock of his stutter.
With that, another wave of laughter came roaring through the classroom. Bill swung the door open and didn’t look back. He could only barely hear the teacher trying to quiet the class down and get them back to their studies, but that didn’t matter now. Bill’s fast pace slowed dramatically once he was in the safety of the hall. He purposely slowed his walk to nearly a crawl, just to extend the time of his little “bathroom” break. His heart was still beating heavy in his chest, and his flushed face marked him like a sticker of shame placed onto his cheeks, but in the hall he was safe. He was unsure if the shame he felt would ever leave. He hated his stupid, stupid stutter. His mind was consumed by self loathing types of thoughts as he fled into the boys restroom. He didn’t actually have to go, he figured his teacher knew, but he walked in there like it would save his life. Despite his teachers' open distaste for his stutter, she likely understood that he loathed it more than anyone else. He is the one who has to live with the damn thing after all. Nevertheless, she likely agreed to let him use the bathroom just to get his pink face and blabbering mouth out of her once calm and quiet classroom.
When the bathroom door clicked shut and the cold air of the bathroom hit Bill's nostrils, he felt like he could finally breathe. He took a moment to just look at that plain tile half-wall before rounding the corner and being met with the full bathroom. The layout of the bathroom was rather simple. Upon walking in there is a short tile wall to act like a privacy curtain. A person would have to take a right turn to really see the bathroom. On the right hand side of the bathroom there was a wall dedicated to hygiene. There were six sinks set at an even distance between each other; with a small mirror for each. Between each sink there was a soap dispenser and a paper towel dispenser for the sinks and boys to share. It was worth mentioning most boys skipped the whole handwashing process altogether, but Bill’s mother drilled it into his head that polite boys must always was their hands after using the restroom. The left side of the room was for doing your “business” so to speak. The left side of said wall was made up of three urinals, all of varying heights to accommodate the young boys in the elementary wing, the growing boys in the middle wing, and the older boys in the high school wing. Then to the right were three toilet stalls for pooping and privacy. Finally the very back wall, right where the wall meets the ceiling, were some thin and blurry windows to allow natural light through the room. There was also a trash bin on the other side of the half wall, right when you walk in. Bill had been in this bathroom what felt like a million times, so he just made for the stalls without hesitation.
The middle stall was occupied, so he slipped inside the third and final stall at the very end. It was the largest stall and arguably the best because it allowed for that natural light from the windows. It was also without the threat of being peeped on due to the frosted glass, but Bill didn’t know that’s what it was called. Most boys just call the windows “blurry” and that seemed good enough. He latched the stall door shut and - with a motion that Richie, the Trashmouth Tozier, would describe as a “majestic twirl” - pivoted on his heel with a spin and made for the toilet. Unlike what you’re supposed to do while sitting on a toilet, Bill kept his shorts on and securely fastened around his hips. No point in dropping them down when he didn’t have to go. He sat his clothed rear onto the toilet seat and put his head in his hands. His palms felt cold by comparison to his flaming cheekbones. For a moment he just moved his hands and fingers around his face to cool it off. He glanced briefly at the brown leather boots in the other stall. Bill didn’t mind that there was another kid in the bathroom with him, but he sure as hell would rather be alone right now though, but beggars can’t be choosers as his father would say.
Back with his head tucked thoughtfully in his palms, his brain replayed that damn scene in the classroom over and over like a broken record.
His teacher had been trying to gather some class engagement for their reading lesson. She spent what must’ve been about five minutes asking for volunteers to raise their hands so they may take a turn to read out loud, but the classroom was completely void of sound except for breathing and the occasional cough. Normally any teacher would be praising the lord for such a relaxed set of thirteen year olds -mixed with some older kids that didn’t quite make the marks- but that quiet and dead classroom wasn’t what she needed at that moment. It always seemed that when she needed kids to be quiet, there they were laughing, talking and being disruptive, but the moment she needed them to chat, there they were, dead silent and disengaged. She cautioned, ’I’ll start calling on people if nobody raises their hands’ but nobody did. With a heavy sigh she began to point to random children in the class, asking them to read a paragraph or two, before calling on another child to do the same with the next set down.
Everything was all fine and well until she pointed off to the back center row of the class, right on Bill Denbrough. The way her face went from a pleasant look of boredom to instant regret washing over her expression haunted him. The way she realized ’oh no. Oh me oh my what have I done? I just called on the stutterer. Oh God here we go. Now I’ve got to sit through this.’ The look was not shocking nor uncommon for Denbrough, but the fact it was so transparent, and on a teacher no less, threw him completely off his rhythm and left him horrified. Why did people have to look at him like that? He doesn’t like the stutter any more than anyone else does, but it’s not like he can control it. While Bill’s stutter in the classroom was normally long and tedious, her visible regret would’ve had him fumbling for his words even if he didn't stutter. He kept telling himself ’just read through this as fast as you can so she can call on someone else’ but it seemed the faster he wanted to speak, the slower he became. He was choking on his words, only made worse by how some kids snickered or groaned at his lengthy stuttering read, but it all went from bad to worse when he got caught on the word “knapsack”.
That damn word had him by the throat and once he got past the “knap” part of the word, he was completely stuck on the “sack” part of it. The kids really began to giggle there, but Bill was so focused on trying to get the word out, he had no idea why they were laughing. It wasn’t until Moose Sadler; one of the older boys and an on and off again member of the Bowers gang, quickly and quietly shouted, “ball sack,” that the chuckles turned into a roar of laughter. The teacher reacted almost instantly, hushing and shushing the class, but it was too late. The damage was done and the kids were hysterical. Poor Bill was left with the icey realization he was blabbering on and on about “sah-sah-sack-”. If that thought was ice, then the next realization that hit him was like a snowy avalanche; ‘Moose is gonna tell Henry about this’. His mind reeled when the thought grew. ’Moose is gonna twist the story; call me a queer, a gay-lord talking about ball sacks in class’. That was the final straw, the one that left Bill clutching his desk til his knuckles were white and his face was that of a furnace. His only fallback was the good ol bathroom trick.
Which brought him here, red faced and hiding away in a bathroom stall.
Bill groaned into his palms and hid his face even more. His brain just wouldn’t shut up with how Moose was gonna run his mouth. What was Henry going to do to him once he heard? It’s not that Bill had any malicious opinions about gay people, quite the contrary really. He was probably one of the most open minded people in their school about gay people, but it wasn’t a label he wanted others to be throwing around about him when Henry - the Psychopath - Bowers was around. He could practically hear it now, in bold letters like a radio announcer for a big talk show trumpeting, “LOOKIE HERE LADIES AND GENTS, HERE WE HAVE STUTTERING BILL, DERRY MANES FAVORITE GOOD OLD FAGOLA. WHO WILL HE DO NEXT? STAY TOONED THIS WEEK FOR THE NEXT EPISODE OF FAGS IN BODY BAGS”. Bill would be considered the luckiest boy alive if Henry only made him bleed a little bit. He could live with the rest of the school thinking of him as a gay, blubbering fool, but with Henry Bowers around, that rumor might as well be written on his obituary. He almost wanted to cry, but he didn’t dare. Crying with another boy in the room? That would be a fast way to get upgraded from ‘Blubbering Gay Fool’ to “The Stuttering Gay Crybaby”. Although that didn’t make him want to cry any less. Quite the contrary, it only fueled it. His unshed tears bit at him hard, but he denied himself the right to cry. After all he hasn’t genuinely cried since-
Since Georgie died.
Since the funeral.
Since his baby brother was buried in a small casket with only one arm, because they couldn’t find the other one.
Bill looked up to the ceiling, rolling his eyes up to force the tears back in. They bit and clawed, trying to crawl out from their prison and his lower lip fluttered with pre-cry breaths. His breathing was louder than he meant for it to be, but not as loud as he believed it was. He fluttered his eyes, trying to banish the salty tears. They fought him, nearly won but soon retreated. They left a burning sensation throughout his face, but he felt pride in his repression. It wasn’t until he was absolutely confident that he wasn’t going to cry that he allowed himself to look down at the tile floor. They rested there for a moment before flicking back to the boots inside the other stall.
It was odd that the other boy hadn’t left yet, and his boots seemed oddly- nearly painfully- familiar but he couldn’t quite place who they belonged to. The boots were quite large, meaning they belonged to an older boy. It was then where Billy finally noticed a scratching sound that came from the other stall. It took Bill only three seconds, one mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi, to understand the boy must’ve had a knife or something similar and was carving something into the wall. Given the type of graffiti in Bill's own stall walls, it was likely a fowl spirited message or phallic drawing. That’s just how the bigger boys were, and some of them were really good at drawing dicks. It was almost concerning how well they could carve dicks into the stalls. Bill could do without seeing all the cruel messages written along the walls, but he didn’t mind randomly finding a funny looking penis shape in unexpected places. It was always a good laugh when he found one. He pondered briefly if drawing dicks was a boy exclusive trait. He wondered if girls drew dicks in their bathroom too. Although, they probably wouldn’t because how would they know what one looks like? He supposed they probably draw… whatever it is girls have in their pants, but he couldn’t be certain.
As immature and boyish as it was, the thought of all the funny dick carvings he’s seen made his spirits lift a bit. He’d seen all sorts of drawings. Big ones, little ones, ones with tiny little balls and bulbous tips and others with sharp small tips and huge balls like golf balls. Then there were the hairy ones, veiny ones, floppy ones, super straight ones that seemed to be peeing due to the tear drop shapes coming out of it. Hell, he had even seen one once with angel wings with text underneath that read ‘RIP Boogers Balls’, which was a reference to a time where Vincent “Boogers” Taliendo got hit in the balls with a kickball in gym class. The thought of all those funny penis drawings and the memory of Boogers wailing in pain when he was struck in his nether regions suddenly made Bill feel a lot better. His face was no longer red and despite being embarrassed about the whole classroom endeavor and anxious about his fate with Henry, for now he felt stable. He may cry later that evening if the thought of Georgie returned to him, but he’d likely forbid himself once again. That’s just how he was.
Ignoring his thoughts, Bill decided he should probably return to class. After all, he had been gone for quite some time by this point. He rose to his feet and thought about his bladder for a moment. After a few seconds of mental debating, he decided he should urinate before returning to class, after all, he was right there. Might as well go now he figured. With a turn, unzip and let-her-rip, Bill did his business and within a flash he was finished and zipping himself back up. He flushed the toilet and exited the bathroom stall. In a trained and orderly manner, he walked straight for the sink ahead and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. He cleared his throat while squirting some hand soap into his palm. His eyes met with that of his reflections. His eyes were a bit pink around the edges and lower lids, but other than that, there was no evidence he nearly cried. ’Thank God,’ he thought. In the reflection, he glanced at the other stall, a bit weirded out now since the other boy was still in the bathroom stall. No sounds emitted from the stall now. The carving sound had ended once Bill opened his stall door. Other than the carving, the other boy hadn’t made a sound. No typical bathroom noises or anything. Just silence. Bill mentally shrugged, deciding it was just some kid skipping class. He turned the water on and began to clean his hands in the pleasantly warm water. The water was nice, grounding in a way; comforting. He watched the way the clear fluid ran off his skin like a mini waterfall.
His trance was broken when he heard the clunk of the middle stall door lock being unlatched. Reflexively, Bill looked up into the mirror to see who the other kid was. The other boy must’ve been in the bathroom for well over ten minutes. He curiously watched the stall through the mirror, but the door didn’t open right away. Several long seconds ticked on with no movement from the door. It was much too long to be considered normal. Bill’s hands slowly stopped moving as he watched. He was just holding his hands under the water, fingers intertwined. He held still, just waiting and watching. As soon as the thought, ‘who’s in there’ surfaced in his head, it was as if the other boy could read his mind. The stall door began to creak open, but at a deliberately low speed. Bill was transfixed by this point, unable to tear his eyes from the stall door. The boy who was finally revealed by the door was someone that took the breath from Bill's lungs.
At first he almost didn’t even recognise who the other boy was. His brain seemed scrambled by the position of the other boy's body when he opened the door. The boy's open hand was placed on the door, but with his thumb pointed down towards the ground and his elbow crooked upwards, rather than the casual other way around. The position of his head was just- bizarre. His shoulders were askew, one pointed closer to the floor than the other and his head was cocked to the side, exposing a large portion of his neck. It’s not that his head was tilted like someone would do if they were in deep thought, his head was more so vertically pushed to the side, like someone peeking through a crack in a wall. Bill’s heart practically stopped when he saw it. It was so viscerally wrong. His eyes widened and lips sealed tightly. His shoulders tensed and nerves lit up like a flame to a match. The boy behind him was staring right into Bill's eyes through the mirror and his lips curled at the corners when they locked eyes. The worst part about it was that Bill knew this boy.
The boy that was both behind and in front of him, was none other than Patrick Hockstetter.
Neither boy moved. Bill couldn’t. His legs just seemed to freeze up. He was in a state of denial. It couldn’t possibly be Hockstetter. There was no way that out of their entire school, out of the entire male student body, that Patrick Hockstetter was the boy who just so happened to be in the bathroom at this very moment. Bill’s eyes must’ve been playing tricks on him, but as time ticked on, that hope vanished. The fact that Patrick was both in front and behind Bill sent a shudder through his scrawny frame. His instincts told him to run, but he didn’t dare turn around. He feared that if he turned around, it would activate some sort of primal instinct in Patricks brain and cause him to do something dangerous. Bill waited, hoping to God Patrick would just move already. He couldn't stand looking at that expression anymore; that sinister smile with eyes void of any true emotion. There was excitement and emptiness in his face and it had Bill frozen stiff. When Patrick finally did move, it didn’t make Bill feel any better. In a strange way, Bill had gotten used to that stand off of sorts but when Patrick moved, it was a horrible reminder that Patrick was real. A real, breathing and sentient member of the Bowers gang.
Patrick moved like a predator. Low and slow. Like if he stilled his movement and took care to breathe silently, Bill wouldn't see him coming. He approached the sink, but his eyes never left Denbroughs. It wasn’t until he was finally beside the bathroom sink that his head turned to directly look at Bill's face, not just the reflection of it. Bill refused to look. He shot his eyes downcast back to the water; still running in his palms. Standing beside Patrick, he never felt so small. Bill was only around five feet tall, give or take an inch or so. Patrick was just an inch shy of being six feet tall, despite still being around sixteen years old. Bill hardly breathed, he didn’t acknowledge the fact Patrick was watching him, leaning leftwards towards him. It was almost like Bill was a homeowner and Patrick was a ghost haunting the house. Just so long as Bill ignored the presence, it couldn’t hurt him; right?
Patrick observed the unsteady rise and fall of Bill’s thin chest. His eyes scanned along Bill’s scrawny frame. The way his fingers were trembling, despite the assumedly warm water sent a heat through Patrick. He licked his lips at the sight of Bill's fingerprints beginning to prune. Then, what happened next was just about as abnormal as the way Patrick opened the stall door. Patrick reached up for the soap dispenser and squirted a dime sized dollop into his palm. He spread the soap along his hands until they were frothy and then turned the faucet on. Patrick Hockstetter, the boy who so often collects dead bugs, spits in other kids' faces, and spends most of his time with Henry Bowers or in the local junkyard, was washing his hands. Maybe to someone who had the pleasure of not knowing Patrick wouldn’t understand the abnormality of this action, but it was almost as wildly strange as someone sprouting an arm from their forehead. Patrick mimicked the way Bill's hands moved, almost matching the exact movements like the very mirrors they stood in front of. Patrick was really washing his hands. It was a concept so outside of Bill’s perception of reality, he was nearly tempted to turn his head and watch, but he schooled that curiosity back and kept his eyes trained forward. He could see in his peripheral vision that Patricks head was still turned to look at him.
'Just finish washing your hands and go,' Bill told himself. 'Just finish and go, fucking go.'
That was enough for Bill. He hurriedly gave a final rinse to his hands. Although he already knew them to be clean. He considered them clean enough when the stall door opened, but his curiosity and fear were his undoing. Bill twisted the sink knobs, making the water cease its pour. The absence of the water hitting him felt like a spell had been broken. Bill took just one step back, his hands moving down to dry themselves on his denim shorts when Patrick sprung into action. Patrick moved so violently, the water from his hands splattered to the floor and a few droplets landed on the wall. Bill gasped and flinched at the sudden action and his right eye clamped shut expecting a fist to collide with his cheek, but instead of being struck, he heard the paper towel dispenser get tugged, and a rip sound followed behind. Bill opened both eyes and looked at the other boy. He found Patrick with his arm outstretched towards him, with a half wet paper towel in his hand, held up for Bill to take.
The way he handed the towel to Bill made the hair on the smaller boy's neck prickle. Patrick held up the brown paper between his middle and index finger, almost as if he was offering Bill a cigarette instead of something to dry his hands with. The wetness of Patrick's hands soaked about half the towel and the rest of the water fled down to his elbow in a stream and dripped to the floor. Bill felt like ice when his subconscious reminded him, 'he was carving something in the stall. He has a knife.' That knowledge of the knife, the strange way Patrick, Patrick Hockstetter, moved, and that ever present smile - yet not a smile - on his face set Bill's mind ablaze. Every bone and blood drop in his body said for him to run. To forget the towel and high tail it out of there like an abused dog with his tail tucked between his legs in fear of being kicked.
Yet he still took the paper towel.
His hand moved on its own. He wasn't sure why it did. God, he had no idea why his body would betray him like that. It didn't occur to thirteen year old Billy, but social expectation was one hell of a thing, a demanding thing, and the expectation of being polite overpowered the fear he felt. He took the towel gently, not wanting to make even too fast of a movement. A janky motion would certainly provoke something from Hockstetter. That something was a mystery. It could be as simple as a punch in the chest, a hawked loogie in the face, or a push to the floor, but Hockstetter didn't have that kind of reputation. That was more of a Belch Huggins type of thing, or even a Victor Criss thing, but not a Hockstetter type of thing. Patrick was never that easy. He was precise and cold. Patient.
So with trembling fingers Bill took the paper towel, it still partially soaked from Patrick's own wet hands. When Bill tugged it towards himself, Patrick gave it easily. Patrick's hand lowered to his side, and Bill was so incredibly aware of it. He thought for sure at any moment a knife would come for him. Maybe not to actually stab Bill, but definitely to rile him up. Hell, Patrick would probably say "hey mush-mouth, how about a haircut? Free of charge". However, as Bill did his best to dry his hands with the half damp towel, Patrick did no such thing. His hand remained by his side. It was oddly flexed, kind of like how a gunslinger would hold his hand to his holster in an old western movie, but he made no additional movement. His other hand was out of sight, perhaps in his back pocket, and its lack of visibility twisted Bill’s stomach. 'Say something,' Billy thought. 'Oh dear God just say something. Call me mush-mouth, call me a fag, call me queer, call me a maggot brained idiot or something. Just say something.' He begged internally. The silence felt worse than being punched. It felt like a million tiny needles were poking into his flesh, all throughout his small and thin body. Like the world's most excessive acupuncture session. The silence was so painful, and the social etiquette was so punishing, that it was Bill Denbrough who spoke first, or at least tried.
"Th-th-th-th-th," he tried. He was trying to keep it short, simple and fast; just an easy 'thanks' so he could be on his way. Patrick's eyes sparked to life, his mouth flashing white with a smile that was all teeth. There was no kindness in that smile, but his eyes were worse. They glimmered in the same way a monster’s would through the darkness of a child's closet. Bill couldn't escape them. His cheeks began to flush as he struggled through that singular word. "Thuh-thuh-tha-ae-ah-anks."
He had no idea how long it took for him to finish the word, it was certainly no less than seven seconds, that much he knew, but he also knew he had somehow awakened something within Patrick. It was either Bill's stutter or his politeness, or maybe an unpleasant mixture of both, but something awakened a part inside Patrick. A part of him that Bill did not want to be awoken. His eyes were alive now. Predatory and full of youthful spirit. Bill took a tense step back, and noticed how Patrick tracted his movement. Now it was time to go. For real. Any amount of time longer in this bathroom, and Bill might be crawling out with his teeth in hand. He snapped his head to the floor and started for the door, but audibly gasped when, like a lightning strike, Patrick sidestepped and blocked his path. Bill was so astonished by this sudden speed that he stumbled back, dropping the paper towel he had in his hand. Patrick's sink was still on, the water running and draining all at the same time. It was just about the only sound in the room other than footsteps and heavy breathing. Patrick towered above Billy, and he used this extra foot of height to corral Bill around, with his back facing the mirror. He silently led Bill backwards, until his back bumped against the tile wall, with his narrow hips wedged between the two sinks. Patrick swiftly closed the difference between the two of them. They were at most a foot apart, if that. Bill was pressed entirely against the wall, save for his arms which had to be lifted up, his hands placed on the sides of either sink. He gripped them hard, his skin making an audible squeak against the ceramic.
Now Bill was trapped.
Oh yes he was.
Patrick didn’t even have to speak to bring Bill to his mercy. Not one word had left Hockstetters lips and somehow Bill was pinned against the wall. There was nowhere to go now that he was cornered. He supposed he could try to throw himself into Hockstetter, but Patrick was bigger than him, a lot bigger in fact. Bill was only thirteen while Patrick was around sixteen or seventeen. Bill couldn’t quite remember, nor did he care. If they were older, like thirty and thirty three or four respectively, the gap wouldn't be so dramatic, but a sixteen or seventeen year old vs a thirteen year old was like going to a knife fight and the other guy brought a gun. Not to mention only one of them really did have a knife on their person. Ignoring their obvious height difference, there was also a huge weight difference between them as well. Patrick was around fifty to sixty pounds heavier than Billy. If Bill were to throw himself into Patrick's chest, the most likely outcome is that he’d ricochet back into the wall, or at best temporarily throw Patricks balance off. Best case scenario, Bill would throw himself into Patrick, and the complete lack of anything happening would make Patrick laugh so hard that he’d just let Bill go. Worst case would be pissing Patrick off. Although it was worth mentioning that Bill had never seen Patrick angry before. He was sure it was possible. He had seen Henry angry more times than anything else. Victor, Belch and Moose were prone to anger as well, but Patrick? Bill couldn’t recall ever seeing a scowl cross his face. He had seen- what he assumed was- a mask of anger on Patrick's face, but it lacked a certain fire that true anger had. The idea of somehow successfully pissing off Patrick made Bill's blood run cold.
Even with all of that out on the table, there was still one thing left unmentioned. Patrick was one freaky kid. He kept dead insects in his pencil case, something he was always keen on showing off to select kids for some unknown and bizarre reason. He often had a deathly odor wafting from him. One boy, just a grade above Bill, compared the odor to roadkill. However, the worst and most uncanny part about Patrick was his reputation. He had a long and seemingly never ending history of violence among other boys. He had knocked the teeth out of several boys' mouths, broken several fingers and arms, and even bit kids so hard he drew blood from the teeth marks. He even had a reputation among the girls in the Derry school system, one that was so vague and mysterious to Bill, that it sent chills through him just thinking about it. There was just something so wrong about Patrick. An unspeakable and frightening wrong about him. So trying to shove past him with his back against the wall was not an option for Stuttering Bill.
Bill was ripped away from his thoughts when Patrick abruptly lunged forward. Bill's face snapped to the left. There was a brief second that flashed where Bill thought Patrick was- it sounded foolish to even consider- about to kiss Bill. He was close enough to, that's for sure. In an instant Patricks breath was hot on Bill's right cheek. Bill pondered briefly; would Patrick kiss him? He certainly didn't want him to, but Patrick cared very little for what others wanted. Bill's own voice internally cut in, assuring him that what he thought was nonsense. They're both boys after all and sure, queer people exist but Bill was absolutely positive Patrick was not queer… Or was he? He supposed it was possible, but Patrick liked girls. The previously mentioned reputation he had confirmed it. The way he behaved with girls was something that just about every child knew about but very seldom discussed. Patrick did things to the girls in their school. The things he did were vague at best to Bill. He truly knew very little about the matter. He had no idea what Patrick had done to make the girls so frightened of him. Bill could recall once where Richie Tozier asked two girls what they found to be so scary about Patrick. Bill wasn’t a part of this conversation, but he was sitting comfortably within earshot, and he was curious as to why as well, so he elected to eavesdrop.
Richie had said something like, “I don’t get why you ladies are so scared of him. He doesn’t rough you up like he does us boys. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to re-glue my glasses thanks to him”. The more talkative of the girls answered in the most perplexing and eerie way she could’ve. Her answer left Bill scratching his head. She had said, “there are worse things than being hit, Richie.Patrick does things. You’re lucky you’re a boy”. Even though it was not said to Billy directly, that answer haunted him. What on Earth could that have meant? “Patrick does things,” yes he had heard, but what were those things? What could possibly be worse than being hit, being pinned to the ground with dirt and rocks shoved into your mouth? Being forced to your hands and knees and being sat on? Being stripped of your shirt and whipped with the branches of fir trees across the chest and back? Boy’s will scream, cry and run with terror when the Bowers gang show their faces, but only girls cower and freeze up when Patrick walks by. There was something Patrick did exclusively to girls that left them terrified of him. Bill believed them that it was bad- real bad-, but his brain couldn’t fathom what could possibly be worse than what he does to boys. Yet, in this very moment; being pressed against the wall with Patricks breath against his cheek, there was a small voice inside Bill. A voice that he wasn’t even sure if it was his own and it spoke softly; “are you sure he stops at girls Billy? Or are the girls just the ones that talk about it?”
There was a different kind of fear inside Bill now, one he had never felt before. Fight or flight kicked in, and he wished he could say his body picked fight. He wished he had the balls to stand on his toes, and in a stutterless scream yell, “FUCK OFF HOCKSTETTER,” but nothing left his lips. His body didn’t even have the courtesy to choose flight and force him into action, fleeing like his life depended on it. No, unfortunately Bill’s body didn’t choose fight or flight, it chose freeze. So stuck like a fly in a spider's web, Bill's eyes washed over Patricks face. In close range, he could see the hairs on Patricks upper lip, forming a soon-to-be mustache that would never come. He watched his lips, waiting for Patrick to just say something already. The silence was killing him. Patrick hasn’t spoken, touched or hurt him and Bill was shaking like a leaf. Patrick leaned in a little closer, Bill pressed the side of his head against the tile. He held his breath tight in his chest and his entire body was sent into a rigid, rock like stature.
“Sorry about your little brother,” came Patrick's voice, soft in his ear. It was almost gentle, ticklish even but yet, so incredibly uncanny. Words of empathy, compassion and understanding came out monotone with just a hint of elation. Those words were almost incriminating. Patrick apologizing for the loss of another? Patrick wasn’t known for that kind of sensitivity. Even when his own flesh and blood brother, Avery Hockstetter, died from crib death, Patrick asked for no sympathy and didn’t mourn. He went to school, just like the day before. The blankness on his face was no different than the expressions before. Everything was just… as before. Like Avery never existed and therefore, the death never occurred. Bill could still recall his mother Sharon gasping while reading the morning paper a few days later. When asked, she explained that Avery Hockstetter had died. She had to explain to him what crib death was, saying it’s when a baby accidentally suffocated themselves while sleeping. Bill remembered his eyes widening. He never would’ve guessed Patricks baby brother was dead. Patrick didn’t seem to feel anything about it. Almost as if he’s the one who caused it, but Bill figured that thought stemmed from his hate of Hockstetter, and not one of actual likelihood. While Bill couldn’t be so sure about Patricks involvement with Avery’s death, he now knew without a shadow of a doubt that Patrick did not kill George Elmer Denbrough.
At that very moment, Bill would never be able to explain just how he knew Patrick was not to blame for Georgie's death, but he just knew. Patrick didn’t kill him, and that alone sent another swirl of emotion through the eldest and now only child of Sharon and Zack Denbrough. He was relieved, knowing he wasn’t face to face with a child murderer, enraged, knowing the killer is still out there somewhere and terrified of where that killer may be. Bill’s soft eyes looked into Patricks. Tender eyes met with vacant and void pits. Emotionless pools of darkness were Patricks eyes, aside from just a touch of glee. “Sorry about your little brother,” his voice echoed in Bill's ears, just as nasally as before. Bill’s eyes were locked with the other boys, and with tightly clamped lips, he nodded slowly. His nod was an intentional action, one deliberately used to avoid speaking. However, if he would have dared to speak, he would’ve said, ’thank you Patrick, now please, please get the hell out of my way.’
Bill waited for Patrick to move, after all, the conversation seemed over, but Patrick remained in place like he didn’t notice Bill's answer. His lips contorted ever so slightly into a smile, just at the corners. His grin was almost unnoticeable, but there wasn’t much else for Bill to look at in such close proximity. He remained just as invasively close to Bill, just as he was before. This wouldn’t do. Bill didn’t know what his goal was, but Patrick wasn’t satisfied for some reason. Bill wondered, ’he can’t hear my heart, can he?’ Bill looked downwards to the floor, eyes locked somewhere between the tile ground, the corner of the sink and the edge of Patricks leather belt. The thought of pushing Patrick came back to him, but he banished the thought immediately, because only God and Patrick knew what kind of reaction that would provoke from Hockstetter. Instead, Bill, just above a whisper, tried to speak.
“Th-th-tha-ae-ae-anks-s Puh-Puh-,” he tried. Bill's eyes didn’t lift, but if they did they’d be met with a large, tooth filled grin once again.
A bang filled the room, causing both boys to snap their heads over to the left side of the bathroom. Bill jumped considerably, but even Patrick had flinched ever so slightly at the sound. In came another boy, who had entered so quickly, the metal handle for the bathroom door clacked against the tile wall. Belch Huggins stole the rubber door stopper several weeks ago to piss off the custodians. The other boy had an expression of annoyance as he walked about four feet into the bathroom before looking up and seeing the scene before him. He froze the moment he laid eyes on them. One boy pressed to the wall, eyes as wide as dinner plates and Patrick - fucking - Hockstetter pinning him there. With a rush of courage, Bill took this distraction as a blessing from the heavens. Not thinking of the punishment that will follow his actions, Bill shoved Patrick with all of his might. His hands slammed into the right side of Patricks peck and shoulder, forcing him to open up the right side of his body. Bill used this opening to sprint past him, his sneakers squeaking against the wet bathroom floor. Bill dashed past the other boy, and almost like he could see it in slow motion, he saw the boy's face contort from surprise, realization and then horror. The other boy was now to suffer the wrath of Hockstetter for making him lose his prey, but Bill didn’t regret it. Sometimes one must condemn another to a terrible fate to save themselves. Bill would come to regret it later, a sense of guilt rising up when he’d see the boy’s dual black eyes the next day, but for now, all Bill felt was an ecstasy-like rush of freedom. Bill ran down the hall like his heels were on fire. He only stopped running about halfway down the hallway, the reason being he was passing by the school's office and they’d have a bird if they saw him sprinting down the hall. As soon as he passed the office windows, he resumed his dash down the hall.
Once to his classroom door, he stopped and caught his breath. He opened the door and quietly stepped inside. He half expected the class to turn and laugh at him once again, but maybe two people looked over at him from their books. The rest of the class had their noses down and order had clearly been restored. His eyes flicked to his teacher, and she quietly held up her hand. With her fingers she flashed him the number four, before turning her hand into a fist, and flashing the number four once again. Understanding immediately, Bill nodded and walked to his desk. He sat quietly in his chair and opened up the textbook to page 44. He could feel eyes on him from behind. Bill turned his face to his right shoulder and saw Moose grinning at him. The bigger boy made a ball grab motion with his hand, but didn’t say a word. Bill just looked away, almost relieved by Moose’s presence. He’d much rather deal with Sadler than Hockstetter any day. Then again though;
Who knows what Henry’s gonna do?